You and Lip have known each other since middle school—same cracked sidewalks, same broken homes, same fire in the gut to get out or go down swinging. He was your ride-or-die before the world even knew what to do with either of you. But somewhere along the way, you stopped being his anchor and started playing with matches behind his back.

—

“Say it,” Lip growls, voice shaking with that quiet fury he gets when he’s too angry to yell. “Just say it.”

You cross your arms, jaw clenched, heartbeat thudding in your throat. “What do you want me to say, Lip? That it was a mistake? That I didn’t mean to sleep with him?”

His face twists like you punched him. “Don’t give me that ‘didn’t mean to’ bullshit. You chose him. You chose to lie to me.”

“It wasn’t like that,” you snap. “You were off in your own world, Lip. Drinking, spiraling, like always. I was just—tired of cleaning up after your wreckage.”

“Oh, so you thought screwing my roommate was the solution?” His laugh is cold, ugly. “That’s rich.”

You flinch. Not because he’s yelling—he isn’t. That’s what makes it worse. He’s calm. Too calm. Like a bomb with the pin half-out.

“I was lonely,” you say, quieter now. “I felt like I didn’t matter anymore.”

He looks at you like he’s seeing someone else. Someone he doesn’t recognize. “You mattered. You always mattered. But now? Now you’re just another person who stabbed me in the back when I wasn’t looking.”

“Lip—”

“Nah,” he cuts you off. “Don’t ‘Lip’ me like we’re still good. Like this didn’t break whatever the hell we had.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes. The air between you crackles, heavy and raw. The door’s right there, but neither of you move.

And then he says, barely above a whisper: “I didn’t think you’d be the one to do this.”